


Collapsing Star with Tunnel Vision

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: Whumptober 2019 [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Epic Bromance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Screw toxic masculinity, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, no copyediting we typo like mne, sort of based on that one post of mine, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 13:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Clark lifted his phone to snap a photo to send to Dick, then paused, frowning. Something was off. It scraped at the underside of his consciousness, like an itch he couldn’t scratch or a word he couldn’t quite remember. He couldn’t even pinpoint what sense was wrong.





	Collapsing Star with Tunnel Vision

It was a beautiful day, a rarity in Gotham. The wind off the bay and the warm summer sun conspired to scrub away the smog, giving the crowds below a full, blue sky. The air still held hints of garbage and exhaust, but also of freshly cut grass and warm, tilled earth.

Clark sucked in a lungful of it, his fingers itching to dig into the soil. Instead, he adjusted his grip on his notepad and scratched out a quick line of shorthand before surveying the audience again.

They really couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day, and the crowds seemed to come alive under the radiant sun. Gotham’s people were not the hardtack sewer rats some editorial comics made them out to be, but they smiled less and walked like they expected a blow. Today, the sun and breeze were like a caress, straightening backs and lifting chins with a touch.

Or perhaps it was less the weather and more the day itself and the way it was wreathed in hope.

A small herd of shrieking children ran past, pushing their way through the crowd and out the other side. Clark lifted his elbows clear, then looked up with a smile to catch Bruce Wayne’s eye.

From his seat onstage, Bruce returned the expression wanly. Today he looked even more like the vampire certain members of the Justice League accused him of being. The sunshine made his skin appear sallow and pale, the dark smudges under his eyes accentuated by the shadowed brim of his ballcap. He should have stayed home. The League had battled on extraterrestrial soil, and Batman had been caught in the thick of it. He had come through fine, as always, but his human body required more time to rest and recover.

Any other day, Clark would have wheedled at him to stay home. Any other day, Bruce might have.

Of course, any other day, and Bruce wouldn’t look like his heart was slowly being ground into dust.

_You okay?_ Clark mouthed.

Bruce’s chin dipped a fraction in the smallest nod he could give. They had to be careful out of uniform, appearing too chummy. Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne were, to the rest of the world, professional acquaintances, not the nearest thing to blood brothers. It was all Clark could do to convince Perry that he needed to be here, that Bruce Wayne contributing a community complex to one of the poorest neighborhoods in Gotham was a worthwhile human interest piece for the _Planet_. Not that Bruce was likely to give him more than that nod even if they were publicly the closest of friends.

Clark could do little beyond taking Bruce at his word, so he offered another encouraging smile and returned to surveying the space. The mayor was still talking, a lot of empty air stamped with flowering curlicues, so Clark let his hearing spread further afield. Beyond the drone of the mayor and the low chatter of the crowd, he could hear the laughter of the children playing on the swings in the small park in the distance behind the stage. He could hear the happy murmuring of the librarians in the building at his back, preparing for the grand opening in a half hour. He could hear the squeak of rubber-soled tennis shoes on the shining floor in the new community center. And beyond, he could hear Gotham, with all its rumblings and grumblings, the low growl of machinery, the hum of industry, the shattering of glass, and the lowing of ships’ horns in the bay.

He could hear people talking about the new complex, both here at the ceremony and out in the wider world. The new block of affordable housing, not fancy but clean and new and tied to multiple assistance programs, would have been enough by most people’s standards. Bruce never seemed content to be most people. He had bought the land around the block as well and poured money into the park and playground, community center, and new library branch, with security and maintenance guaranteed indefinitely, straight from his own pockets.

Unlike most of his community outreach projects, this one wasn’t dedicated to Thomas or Martha. The complex was simply called The 3rd Street Haven, the name etched into the bricks of the apartment buildings and over the arch at the entrance to the park. The library would be known as the Haven branch and the community center simply as The Haven. Inside, there were books in abundance, covering all ages, topics, and interests. And under a shady oak tree in the center of the park, there would be an unobtrusive bronze plaque.

_In loving memory of Jason Peter Todd Wayne. King John 3.4.96-97_

That was why Bruce wouldn’t stay away today, even though by all rights he should be home in bed. No one would have faulted him for it—he had vanished entirely from Gotham’s social scene since Ethiopia. But Bruce would have faulted himself. So he had come. And Clark had come, if only to be a face in the crowd.

Clark lifted his phone to snap a photo to send to Dick, then paused, frowning. Something was off. It scraped at the underside of his consciousness, like an itch he couldn’t scratch or a word he couldn’t quite remember. He couldn’t even pinpoint what sense was wrong.

A deep sniff brought some odors Clark could live without, but nothing like accelerant or explosive. He couldn’t nail down a sight that had bothered him. He cupped a hand over one ear, the pressured air in his palm muffling the world for a moment so he could concentrate. Nothing, but the itch was growing stronger.

As gracefully as he could manage, Clark began to ease his way to the edge of the crowd. If he needed to make a quick and subtle exit, he wanted to be able to do so, especially with Gotham’s own hero trapped onstage in full view. Smoothing his way with murmured _ohp_s and whispered apologies, Clark snuck a glance back at Bruce.

Gotham’s son sat with his arm crossed over his chest, eyes closed in what most would consider to be quiet contemplation or, if they knew about the plaques, grief. Even Clark might have, except… Except for the sheen of sweat above Bruce’s upper lip. Except for the way Bruce’s right eyelid spasmed beneath the brim of his ballcap, a flicker in a muscle so small no one would notice but Superman.

It was a noise. The something that was off, the gnat buzzing at the edge of his perception, it was a noise.

Clark had experienced nightmares where he was too slow. Where he watched his Pa fall from the barn roof and hit the earth while Clark stood with his legs buried in muck up to his knees. Where he heard his Ma scream as the truck came barreling toward her, but could only reach her in time to hold her as she died. Where he watched Lois get shot, stabbed, burned, or blown up in any number of the dangerous situations she threw herself into. He would scream himself awake but never save her.

But those were dreams. In the waking world, he might not be able to be everywhere at once, but he was never too _slow._ Until now.

He couldn’t get through the crowd. Superman could have gotten through—Superman would have _flown_ faster than human sight—but he was not Superman. He was Clark Kent, humble, unassuming Clark. So while his alien eye could track every moment down to the microsecond, his reporter body could only do so much to dodge and push and sprint to the stage.

Clark was still yards away when Bruce’s body hit the floor.

He could feel his own mouth moving, calling for someone to get a doctor. He couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear the crowd gasp or the squeal of feedback from the mayor’s microphone.

His ears were empty, the world filled with a vacant howling as his senses tried to lock on to what wasn’t there.

Clark leapt onto the stage and crouched next to Bruce’s crumpled body. One hand lowered his glasses down his nose as the other pressed to his best friend’s chest to verify what he already knew.

It was a noise that had bothered him, an asymmetric thumping like a washing machine with an off-balance drum. He had noted the change in rhythm but not been able to discern the source until it stopped, the moment the arrhythmia in Bruce’s overworked heart threw him into cardiac arrest, erratic thumps cutting off into utter silence.

He had been watching his best friend die and hadn’t known it.

A doctor might be coming, or they might not. Clark couldn’t wait. He cupped his hand under Bruce’s neck, fingers sliding around for a pulse. At the same time, the hand on Bruce’s chest curled, the heel pressing against the seam of the ribs. Then he pushed, muscles flexing fast enough that he would look like he held completely still. Again. Then again. And again.

In his head, Clark hummed a breathy rendition of “Staying Alive,” timing his pushes to the beat of the music. In his head, he made sure to use the barest whisper of his strength, just enough to start a heart but not enough to cave it in. In his head, he poured out apology after sobbed apology atop pleas to anyone who would listen. In his head, he pressed his back to the door that held the view of a life without Bruce Wayne. In his head, the world rang with silence.

There was a breeze at his shoulder, then just as quickly, it was gone and an uncapped syringe lay on Bruce’s unmoving chest. Clark stared at it for a moment as he worked, the gears in his brain grinding against the silence.

“Use it quickly,” advised the doctor looking over his shoulder.

Clark glanced back, one hand still pumping. The man looked like every TV doctor Clark had ever seen—solemn-faced, bespectacled, in a sedate coat. Even without the green, it was still a face Clark knew.

_J’onn._

Clark looked back down at the syringe.

_Barry._

J’onn nodded. His back shielded Clark and Bruce both from the anxious eyes of the mayor and waiting crowd. Clark picked up the syringe and plunged it into Bruce’s chest.

The world burst into color, thrumming in brilliant golds and deep reds and steady blues, as if Bruce had stripped the world of both sound and vibrancy when he left. Now he was back, his heart in Clark’s ears and under his palm, and Clark was drowning in a painter’s studio, in a brass band, in relief so potent he had to breathe before he could speak.

“Bruce?”

Nothing. But then Bruce swallowed thickly and managed a low “Hnn.”

It was the second most beautiful thing Clark had ever heard.

“It’s Clark and J’onn,” he said, voice pitched for only their ears. And Diana’s, wherever she was. “We’re going to get you out of here. Just play along.”

In a louder voice, Clark said, “You’re alright, Mr. Wayne. There’s a doctor here. You’re okay.”

One hand still in Bruce’s chest, he twisted to look past J’onn to the mayor.

“Stomach bug,” Clark declared brightly, eyes clear as the sky. “He says he was already feeling ill, and then the sun…” He let his voice trail and fill in the gaps. He lied enough in his life. He preferred not to do it more than he had to.

Now acknowledged, the mayor bustled forward to help. “We should get the EMTs up here, have Mr. Wayne taken to the hospital, just to be safe—“

Clark cut him off. “This man here,” he gestured to J’onn, “is a physician and has graciously offered to examine Mr. Wayne at home, where he’ll be most comfortable. Please. Continue the ceremony. It’s what he would want.”

“Yes.” Bruce was moving under Clark’s hand, his voice strained but firm. “I don’t want to be a larger disruption than I have already been. Please, continue.”

His hand circled Clark’s wrist. Clark got the hint and released the pressure keeping Bruce on his back, then bent forward and wrapped an arm behind Bruce’s shoulders to help him sit up. J’onn knelt as well, and soon Bruce was on his feet, braced between the two of them.

The crowd rustled with applause. Bruce gave a sheepish wave. Soothed by the sight of Bruce Wayne on his feet and apparently not in the mood to punish the city for his own illness, the mayor relaxed.

“Fine. Fine, just… get Mr. Wayne out of the sun.” The mayor waved them toward the stairs at the back of the stage as if he could hand-wave them straight out of existence.

“Of course,” Clark assured as he and J’onn guided Bruce off the stage. In a lower voice, he murmured, “Wouldn’t want Dracula to crumble.”

Bruce gave a snort and Clark beamed.

They were silent all the way to the car. Clark had considered changing and flying Bruce straight to the Watchtower, but they needed to keep up appearances.

“To the nearest zeta,” Clark told J’onn as he levered Bruce into the backseat. He held up a finger to Bruce’s nose before the other man could protest. “No. You scared the living daylights out of me, Bruce. If Diana hadn’t sent Barry, who knows what would have happened. We are _going_ to the Tower and you’re going to get the full, head-to-toe exam you should’ve had yesterday.”

His hand was on Bruce’s chest again, flat against his ribs. Clark could feel that heart beating, steady as the rotation of the world. He wondered if Bruce could feel how thready his own pulse was, still jumpy with fright, as he wrapped his fingers around Clark’s wrist.

“I was going to say thank you,” Bruce rumbled.

The tips of Clark’s ears burned, but he snorted. “Liar.”

Bruce’s grip tightened, but instead of releasing Clark’s wrist, he looked past him, back to the distant crowd. “Diana was here?”

“We all were,” J’onn offered as he started the car.

Clark had been the only visible one, but the whole team knew what this day and this complex meant to Bruce.

Honesty prompted him into admitting, “Oliver’s watching via webcast. It would be a strange appearance to explain.”

Oliver had called it his gift to Bruce, staying away. But he would still watch.

Bruce sighed. “He’ll give me hell for this.”

“Maybe. Not as much as Alfred will,” Clark pointed out.

Bruce groaned, and Clark grinned as he started to pull away. Bruce’s hand tightened further.

Sometimes, between friends, thanks were as quiet as heartbeats. Clark smiled, then leaned forward and kissed Bruce’s forehead.

Never again. He never wanted to hear the world sound like that again.

**Author's Note:**

> King John, Act 3, Scene 4, lines 96-97: "Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,"
> 
> Bruce came down with an alien cold, except the cold was in his ticker. He's gonna be fine.


End file.
